←♥ Tenken's PussyCat ™
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Ah, while my posts tend to overflow into the realm of multi-paragraph I do not think any one of them makes me giggle as the length of a profile I once created. The character template was huuuuuge
Nile Nerivarr - The No-Man "These wings of mine are made of paper, and upon the slender arch of my newborn spine do problems long unresolved reside. Barely a breath have I taken yet it seems the sins of past shall consume present, for my lungs are as black as malice. How am I to live when the earth has claimed me? I tell you; I shall steal. " - Nerivarr
Given Name: Nile Nerivarr Current Aliases: The No-Man, The Lord of Three Crowns Past Aliases: The Mad God, Kazic Soul: Awakened Languages Spoken: Sindarin/Avarin/ Eldarin/ Vanyarin/ Noldorin (As business demands.) Political Alignment: Ostia.
.::Physical::. - Age: 22 - gender: Male - height: 5'9" - weight: 120lbs roughly
Looks: Enveloped always in rich fabrics from ankle to thin wrist; none living shall ever be partial to the secret that is rooted within his breast whose fruition extends further still to his slight shoulders and slender hips. Beneath these lies lay bits of intricate metal, twisted and twining about limbs as the circuits that hold them anchored to his wretched form likewise consume the organic network of veins within. A tapestry of treasure, his body is home to the wealth of the earth; that of mana, on which life itself thrives. Within him resides great power and great pain. However; at the touch of a smoldering glare all thoughts of pity are wiped from the minds of those who do not understand, could never understand, the sacrifice of everything one possesses to gain that which is beyond destiny. Arrogance as harsh and unyielding as stone is the very making of his perfectly symmetrical features. Wide spaced eyes reflecting an unnatural blue defy fate and life itself from beneath slender silver brows. An upturned nose rests above tiers hued rose (whose veins are evident beneath pale flesh). His complexion, both radiant and ethereal, is as gossamer as a fairy's wing with all the yielding consistency of a fermented peach. As slender as a sapling, the dewy tentative life of spring’s first blossom adds an air of fragility that marks him as unwell.
- Hair color/style: Where light shines a veritable rainbow of delicate shades embodies the abundance of straight hair that is often tied at his nape in a gentlemanly fashion. An outlet for his vanity, it is not uncommon to see coveted metals and stones interwoven into his locks. While capable of being lent long toiled for body, it is rarely done and seldom seen as such a style (while popular in places) is not to his taste. When light is not present, his hair shows a true silver that any prone to avarice are sure to admire.
- Eye color: Deep set and almond in shape, his glance is framed by sweeping lashes of a silver hue. Between perpetually bruised lids do fierce azure eyes stare past life, death, and mortal man to hold fast the ideal of unending persistence. A banked hunger lingers just beyond the ring of night that rests within each orb, smoldering there with such intensity that most shrink beneath the gaze of The No-Man. The stark whites of his eyes are heavily threaded by a delicate lacing of veins that show a bright crimson different from that of the unkempt. Despite the harsh difference of his eyes, there is no denying that he remains lovely.
- clothing style: The no-man is reputed to clothe himself in various styles of popular elegance (though there are few who can actually lend credence to this claim), the only constant in association with his sense of fashion being the restriction of all color to that of black, white, and dusky grays due to his inability to distinguish colors from one another and his unwillingness to look the part of a fool.
Slender legs encased in breaches as pure and unblemished as the new-fallen snow end in highly polished black boots. The heels of such boots are fitted without break into the sole and further still to the rounded tip of the toe. No buckles mar the glossy perfection of tanned and tempered leather though a folded over hem in the geometric shape of a rounded off triangle begins and ends just above each knee. A traditional tunic whose border is outlined in a double stitched piping of silver thread is worn over glistening scale mail so closely woven that it appears to be fabric. No emblem declares its heraldry upon the breast of the colorless tunic, and the sleeves of it (which end before they truly begin) at his shoulders fit so tightly so as to be lost into the weave of his armor beneath it, appearing as one garment. On cold nights and those intended for formality a jacket of ebony velvet is worn over the top of this which tapers at his waist before flaring out again just-so to end at mid-thigh. Silver buttons adorn the pockets of his jacket as well as the front itself. A cravat as luscious in color as the creamy white of the slender throat beneath it matches the calf-skin gloves that encase his fingers. A silver band rests upon each gloved digit, some alight with a magical glow while others sparkle for no other reason than the vain indulgence of precious gems.
Distinguishing: The brand of a traitor is inscribed in the old tongue upon his left wrist; the rune placed there reads 'Kazic'.
Race/ethnicity: A tumble from grace has left the seraph bound to the mortal body of a man.
Body Type: Slim/slender Physical Condition: Frail. Physical abilities/limitations: Monochromacy. Colors do not register to his sight.
Illnesses or Afflictions: ' The Wasting ' The Wasting: A disease associated with the noxious air and earth of the deadlands located in the dark heart of Shadow Lands. All documentation concerning the sickness are Nile's own experimentation and findings, the original and in fact only copy of such records are kept in his personal study. Nile has theorized that it was the malicious taint of the earth itself that slowly sapped away the vitality of his form as he lay beneath it in rest. The cloying touch of death lingers within him in the form of an unknown elemental compound he has yet to classify. It is a likely possibility that the taint exists only in his own form as he has yet to discover the origin of the body within which he resides.
Physical Imperfections: Discontent is his daily bread, and from his cup doth vanity flow freely. For perfection does he strive, improvement is never enough, could never possibly measure up. The glory of his former self seems ever just beyond reach...
Voice: Soft-spoken no matter the situation, The No-Man's words escape parted tiers in an intimate whisper. The lightest brush of an old-world accent lightens his speech to that of a lilting tone. A gentle tenor, his voice caresses the senses with all the delicate sensuality of silk that leaves wanton trembling in its wake. The sweet melody of his spoken words are decidedly appealing and a touch exotic as there are few left who remember to speak as he does. The result is far more effective than a simple gilded tongue... Liquid persuasion drips from his lips, a gentle insistence twice as alluring and thrice as sweet as honey.
Weaponry: Kamas// ash-wood wand// boot knife// ritual dagger//
.::Ravenous & Benevolence::. - A pair of bone handled kamas, crossed at their center, are strapped to his belt at his back. The slices of purest silver that make up each blade are a respectable 9 inches in length and 3 in thickness at the base that tapers off to a harsh point. Neither element nor special ability is imbued within either.
.::No Name::. - A slender wand of supple ash wood is ever in his hand or carefully secured at his hip. His most favored of instruments, it is this carefully refined piece of wood that acts as a focus for his innate magical talent and allows greater spell work to be called into being. A generously sized topaz is embedded in the wood at its beginning, grasped tight within the clutches of magically created roots. His wand shares his own natural affinity for both wind and lightning and thus, steadfastly refuses to produce any sort of flame in accordance with his own weakness.
Armory: Various rings// Amulets// Dhairmon - Dhairmon “whisper boots" are his own invention. Sleek, seamless black leather encases half the length of his legs and though the heels of each are solid and quite unyielding no sound shall ever echo forth to mark his passing, no matter the surface.
- Upon a length of silver chain about his neck does a crescent of the same material lay at rest upon its face. A vortex of insubstantial light resides just beneath it, cradled in the outstretched arms of the open circle though the fabricated gem is suspended in midair. A pensieve of sort, Nerivarr keeps his intimate knowledge of the inner workings of his craft sealed within where none save his own mind may pull them forth to be graced by the mental whisper of understanding.
- There exists a ring upon the third digit of his left hand crafted of darkest ebony. upon the surface of the ring is a half sphere of what appears to be glass that houses within a miniature feather. When invoked by the spoken word that enchants it the ring grants its wearer a sort of weightlessness that allows for wind walking.
Inventory: Ever changing as ingredients are used or required. Mostly spell components (and a few grizzly trophies).
.::Mental::. Basic Alignment: Evil Outer Objective: "What is it I want? What do I want, you ask? Everything." -Nerivarr
Inner Objective: To reclaim the glory of his former existence, namely his own body though he does not remember what he looked like.
Super Objective: “I can still recall the well of unending strength that was mine to tap into. When immortality graced my veins the hearty power of simple- yet invaluable- vitality was assured. Having sampled the waters of eternity I fear that nothing shall slake my thirst but ambrosia." -Nerivarr
Fears/phobias: Nile has an irrational fear of cats as he believes them to be soul-stealing four legged imps of the abyss.
- "I am alight with gleefully burning flames.. My flesh crumbles to ash as if it were nothing more than aged parchment. I scream! And yet no sound erupts forth. There isn't air enough to sustain me. I cannot move, I cannot blink, I cannot exist. Everything I have constructed is consumed within the blaze whose greed surpasses even my own... I detest fire." - Nerivarr
Tends to be: Aloof, removed to the point of absentminded ignorance.
Attitudes toward: - self: The belly button of the universe. (The center) - others: There are other people in the world? They have feelings? No way.
- friendship: Customers offer a more profitable relationship, friends would expect a discount.
- love: Nile is unfamiliar with the concept of love. It is neither cherished nor hated, simply unable to be comprehended.
- the world: Expendable. Method of Handling Anger or Rage: He is the pot that slowly simmers, gently raging beneath deceptively still waters with every intention of overflowing.
Admirable Traits: Nile is a pillar of inner strength and self-control, the epitome of unwavering perseverance.
Negative Traits: Who can name all of the sins of the devil?
Prejudices: Seraphs and other 'holy' beings. “They mock me! With unblemished feathers and unending grace. They taunt me! What right have they to that which is mine?" - Nerivarr
Most Painful Things in Their Life: Awakening. Philosophy of Life: Immortality is the only life worth living.
Mental Disturbances: A temple of voices, it is perhaps the ragged state of his soul that fractured his mental being into three split personas. They manifest themselves under the names of Numair, Azaell, and Samuel and are each a necessary force in the continuation of Nile's survival and sanity. Numair is the force of reason. Unwilling or unable to possess the body entirely he is a mere voice with which Nile often holds council. Azaell is the epitome of Nile's original self. Gracious and amiable his seemingly whimsical acts of goodwill can be attributed to Azaell's influence. When deeds both dark and damning must be carried out it is Samuel whose will commands Nile's form. As is to be expected from a monstrous being that feeds upon death and malice Samuel is incapable of conversing- such is the psyche of a sociopath.
.::Social::. Rank/Class: Usurper of power, Manipulator of men, Genius magitech mechanic
Noted accomplishments: His own magitech life-support augments.
- Famous/infamous: Nile is no stranger to the importance of good connections. Through a shady network of less than saintly associates he has gained for himself a certain amount of notoriety. There is a permanent price upon his head from one fraction of government or another due to the illegality of his trade. However, such a reputation has made him the go-to man for nefarious dealings in megitech. Profit abounds.
Hobbies: Making use of his superior intellect to give birth to advanced technology beyond replication by any other mind or nimble hand.
Pets: “Aro found me shortly after I made my way out of the shadowy pit that marked the earliest point in my existence. I remember stepping into the warm embrace of the sun for the first time and reveling in it as all the cold blooded do. Even distracted as I was my eyes caught sight of a scrap of pale gray upon a lofty branch, as if by fate, and there he sat. My dove." - Nerivarr
Known Associates: Victoria, Aison
.::Other::. Elemental Strengths:Wind, Lightning Elemental Weaknesses: Fire(Great harm), Earth(nullification of secondary element) Skills/ Abilities: - Abjuration: When direct eye contact is made those not of a strong mind may be influenced to forget they had seen him at all.
- False Infinity: An accomplished liar, Nerivarr possesses a certain innate charm that overwhelms those not of a strong mind and quite easily bends them to his will or the belief of any fabricated 'truth' that falls from his lips. So persuasive is he that zealotry is not unheard of.
- The Seal of Six: The full force of his aura may be unmasked and set loose to 'smother' the senses of a single person. The mind is tricked into temporarily shutting down the senses so that blindness, lack of hearing, scent, and even taste are instantaneously set in place while the final sense receptor in the brain, that of feeling, is heavily stimulated in such a way that the victim feels as if they are being crushed/compressed by heavy weight on all sides. There exists no physical evidence of such a tactic though absolute concentration is required to maintain it.
(The range is his own line of sight)
Spells: (Shall be added to as necessary)
" The earth weeps at my passing for it is her life that sustains me. A vampire as surely as those that feast upon the pale throats of mortality, I am just as damned. And so here I rot. Neither heaven nor hell shall be my penance, but a wretched half-life in purgatory.. Forgotten. I am the walking dead man. The corpse of many names. A sinner beyond hope or redemption. Forsaken." - Nerivarr
.::Awakening::.
I remember well my first moments of awareness...
It felt as if the foundations of the world itself rested upon my back. The universe was my burden- the weight of a thousand sins crushing me from above and below!- and not but fetid earth filled my gaping mouth. With tooth and nail I dug my own grave from the inside out until at last I emerged, like a hatchling, unto a world I had never imagined. The haven of my soul, this weak outer shell, gasped for breath. My mind remained strong and alert and so it ignored the aches of pitiful flesh as one might a poor relation. Such floundering was shameful beyond acknowledgment.
My eyes turned heavenward, then. Gray. The whole world seemed gray in those first hours caught somewhere between sleep and waking. I recall first attributing the absence of all things bright and lovely to a defect of this new world as arrogant pride would not allow blame to be saddled so easily upon my own shoulders.
A sense of floundering took root in my conscious mind, and there it remained as I staggered forth with all the grace and coordination of a soul long ago condemned to shadedom. My limbs obeyed only the most basic of commands from a proud mind. Forward. I made my way a single step at a time with one flat, bare foot in front of the other. Shadows crawled from lofty perches, deep holes, and greater rifts to watch that which is beyond this life make passage. They did not trouble me, nor did I have the will to rebuke them if they had. A basic understanding passed between myself and the unnatural beasts of that dark hallowed wood; no matter what I once was we were brethren now.
I had barely left the shroud of gnarled old-growth that encircled my tomb before my wretched form succumbed to the weakness that exists still in my breast. I could feel it. The taint of blight withered my veins with malice as if it breathed and existed as surely as I. With an unending appetite did it seek to steal from me my second life! I, the Second Son of the Dawn, favored amongst the Bright Shiners could barely protest! Another step, a ragged breath; I was lost. Upon my back did I rest while my eyes burned with silent accusations turned heavenward. And so he found me. Bastian.
A man of great education and greater ambition still, he recognized in me a rare case that might very well add a thick lining to his pockets. Do not misunderstand. it was not kindness that led the immortal one to take me in his arms like a babe but the harsh calculative practicality of a merchants mind.
Though alive I was only just barely so. The garish red of life had long since turned to dust within my veins. I was hollow and far past empty. I shall note here how funny I find it that necessities only cross our minds when we are without; So it was with me. Now that life had forsaken me I craved it with a fierce hunger that rivaled that of the damned (vampirekin). The need consumed me until it was all I thought about, dreamed about, and existed for. I could smell blood and I fancied then that I could taste the allusion of it. My senses adjusted as if to aid me in the acquisition of my nourishment, though my keeper then eliminated the need for such assistance.
He kept me in respectable surroundings, and though I knew well from the feel of fluttering hearts just outside my walls that he had many servants it was from his hands that I received my nourishment. He nursed me for a time on the blood of other immortals, fey creatures, never the stolen sanguine of his own parasitic kind. It was clear that my value did not extend to the life of a vampire. My appetite grew. I drank the heated base life of other beings without a care for regret or even sympathy; the elixir of anothers heart-red tears was what I needed, what was provided, and what I eagerly filled my form with.
When at last I was replenished I surprised my benefactor with knowledge superior to his own in all aspects of cultured grace and sophistication. Again and again did he lay foreign instruments before me, and after a simple measuring of chords would I produce for him the sweet sounds of my memory. He did not say it, But I knew there existed within him a certain quantity of fear, jealousy, and bitter hatred for me. The common are prone to such discontent.
Soon after my recovered he took me from the place of my "infancy" to be immersed without care for my own delicate mind in the mass of living that inhabited the dark city in which we existed.
Again I shall pause to make note- The city of shadows seemed then a twisted and grotesque monument of corruption. It defied all the beauty that life ought to represent. Fresh from my living death as I was such seemed a travesty. Where had the gardens gone? Where were my brother angels? It seemed as if even the reigning light of day avoided this place for a cloud of oppressive mortality hung heavy about the buildings and the people especially. I would later learn that it was fear that gripped and choked the assembled. A warlord after my own little heart reigns in Lumbren, and someday he and I shall meet.
We did not wander nor pause in our trek until crowded streets were left behind us and a looming manor house rested in sight. Though he did not yet know it, this would be the end of Bastian and my existence as his asset.
.:: Back Story; Continued: Victoria ::.
An architectural giant of a house loomed before the two of them- Master and merchandise. A pair of stone griffins stood guard at the foot-end of the porch where marble columns lent support to the balcony just above it.
I can tell you now on intimate authority that the manor consists of 47 rooms and is painted a startling red outside (save the snow white door). Black roses- Victoria’s twisted sense of humor at work – threaten to swallow the house whole as thorny appendages wrap and twist around columns and railing alike to strangling the order and civility of the estate. Storm shutters the same shade of black as the petals beneath them keep prying eyes- such as mine were once- from devouring the secrets held within the houses heart.
Upon the narrow walk stepping stones rested then in the shallow graves of their assigned niche, each inscribed with swirling letters foreign to the eyes of this century. Maimed statues, deprived of limb or cleanly decapitated, demanded that those approaching step off the path to continue on. Restless, these tortured stone watchmen; the foolhardy would swear that no matter how often they visited the statues were never in the same place twice.
When the couple that dared intrude upon such a place, Bastian and my unaging yet younger self, reached the front entrance to the manor house, the door they so eagerly sought was pulled open before either one could grasp the brass knocker. A pair of slender little girls no older than 14 held the double doors… their young bodies, forever preserved in that most delicious period between bud and blossom, were bare save a thin gold band about each of their necks.
Their eyes were bright with deceitful innocence. Ironically the irises of such eyes were as green as envy. The smiles that graced girlish lips were plastic, well rehearsed, toothy and foreboding. With elegant hands and fine boned fingers they beckoned both males forward, giggling in tandem until a thickly accented voice silences them both with a one word command. The hiss that escaped each signaled their exit. They disappeared before the living guest could so much as breathe.
Here stood Victoria the Mistress of Harcourt Manor, an immortal temptress, a fiery haired vixen with too-plump lips and bottomless amber orbs. Her lashes would flutter and close as she breathed in the scent of the human one- naive little me. Heady and foreign, she has many times since called me all the more delicious for it. When those whiskey hued eyes opened once more they settle upon the immortal. She closed the distance between them with a few strides of her long legs.
The undead are all eerily graceful, they appear to glide rather than walk, but Victoria sauntered. The sway of her hips drew the eyes of both males from her ample breasts and the rosy points that crowned them to the apex of her thighs. Smooth and hairless, her lower lips were then and always damp and glistening. Between them peeked a ring of gold adorning that most feminine bit of flesh for which all men thank the gods for bringing into being. She was behind Bastian as soon as she was to him, the pouty lips upon her fair face caressing his neck while her tongue slipped between them to taste his flesh. At last she spoke.
“Bastian... you know how I loathe the uninvited and even more so the unannounced. Why have you come..?” Her cousin in immortality had brought her a gift.
Born of a time when society abided by strict rules of conduct, Victoria frowned heavily upon trivial improprieties. Bastian wasn’t her least favorite being in the world per say, but given his mocking charade of a pursuit of her, his utter disregard for proper social etiquette, and his seeming incomprehension of subtlety he was far from her favorite. His elder by a century (give or take a dozen years) her suitors were in no short supply. Vampires are a funny lot in that sense; crones are highly desired. Given that they do not wither I suppose I understand; the sex must be incredible when both participants have centuries of practice going at it.
Still, Victoria did indeed love gifts. His mind was laid bare before her more agile one, and after a few moments of probing through errant thoughts and recent memories she knew his pockets were empty. As his fingers stroked greedily over her flawless being, she turned her attention to the human. He- the delicious one of the cynical gaze and detached persona (Yes that is of course me)- was to be her gift.
Victoria’s stomach turned, to gift an immortal with flesh was decidedly vulgar… particularly when the mortal was unwilling. Her eyes remained upon the human though she leaned into Bastian’s embrace, her lips found his throat before pearly incisors sunk in deep without a thought to asking. She moaned at the taste of his stolen blood… drinking deeply of his life’s essence; that of all those he’d claimed. Her deceptively slender arms embraced him in a vise like hold as the beast that thirsted for the end of his existence savored the futility of his last movements. She was a serpent. The queen of serpents, and in her arms was he nothing more than sustenance, necessary and made something more because of such. He was beautiful to her then. This flailing screaming beast of her kind who pleaded so desperately with his hollow eyes was a lover set to dying.
When he was all but spent, she detached herself from him, whispering loud enough for the mortals ears to listen in.
“One does not discuss their food when it is listening, it’s impolite...” She licked her lips- though not a drop of her feast stained them- as Bastian crumbles to ash. Justice was sweet; this was my first taste in ages I had yet to count.
She had fed only moments before Bastian and the one his thoughts told her nothing of had arrived. Thus it was not hunger that led her to drain the immortal but annoyance. After feasting so heartily she should have been sated, instead I would learn a newfound ache wrenched at the very core of her being. This foreign need, so fresh and infantile was all the more demanding. She trembled. The feel of vitality within her veins brought to life aches and needs of a more physical nature. This man, the living being of fairy-flesh and hollow bones... The mortal me, it was him that she craved so fiercely. She could taste him on the air with such strength that it drowned out the memory of the Bastian's essence though it flowed within her.
The being before her would never be conventionally desirable and yet there existed about him an irresistible pull of power. Her will warred with the beast within her, though one would never guess when gazing upon the serenity of her face at the time. Having won the battle for dominance over herself at last she smiled at the me, speaking to me for the first time. Her voice was softer and gentler both than when she had spoken to Bastian; the laughter in her eyes as well as the words themselves made me question his safety regardless.
“Staring is also a terrible habit of poor etiquette.” My response was witty but of little consequence.
She indulged herself a moment with me in allowing her usually disciplined will to wander just as her eyes did across my form.
Unlike most of humanity and many of her own kind, I refused then to back down or even pale in the face of her chastisement. I had yet to learn the meaning of victory in the pretense of defeat. The glory in servitude would be imparted to me by Victoria.
Though my tone was a bit smart for her taste my quick wit in the presence of death drew a genuine giggle from her. She needed to touch me then and (I fancy it was for my sake) she walked at a decidedly human pace rather than making use of the accelerated speed that is gifted to her kind to do so.
A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as I leaned in ever so slight opposition to this predator of curves and teeth. She knew that being at my back would leave me vulnerable and uncomfortable as a result. She knew this, and she reveled in it. Both wrists of mine were captured in her hands. She brought them to her mouth individually at an unhurried pace … her lips trailed soft kisses along the translucent flesh and near neon veins of my flesh. Unusually tender just then she kept her fangs tucked back so I would feel none of the hardness of her kiss. She wished to shake my guard and lull me into a sense of security, ease, comfort. It worked.
We remained like that a time before Victoria would let me pull my hands from her grasp. We both knew had she wanted to keep me where I was a creature such as her was plenty capable.
The naive boy I was knew his future depended upon the continued interest of this capricious being and so he shared with Victoria every violent ache of his soul and all the dark ambitions of his heart. She was captivated. He was a toy still, yes, but one she could appreciate. His pain was nearly palpable and she flinched before she could check the reaction. Sweet Victoria knew what it was like to be caged and captive... Beautiful, once mortal, Victoria. He ached to be free and yet she could not release him. Curiosity would keep him enslaved to her appetites but she would do her best to see that he was comfortable here, at least until she grew bored.
That ravenous hunger that seemed to crave him and him alone spiked again. She trembled with the effort of keeping it leashed. Victoria turned her back to him, little me, to wrap her arms around herself as I would later learn she had often done as a mortal when frightened, lonely, cold, or otherwise vulnerable. How strange that after so many years she should feel compelled to do so again now. I drew from the festering heart of this immortal her humanity as one might poison from a bite. Was I pathetic, yes. Did I beg, plead, and whimper; serve, slave, and humiliate myself, yes. Did I come away from it hale and hardy, filthy rich, and well sexed- Yes. Yes I did.
But that was not just yet. Her words then were everything I had hoped to hear.
“You will stay as my guest for now; I have no intention of killing you as the mess that would result would take more than a broom and waste pan to tidy up. My house is open to you, everything within is yours… Your only limitation is the east wing and that is merely a suggestion for avoidance as those who inhabit that hall and its rooms would gladly do you harm. You will dine with my tonight. There are a number of wash rooms on all three floors, clean yourself up. You won’t like the consequences if I have to attend to you."
This would be the first of many acts of strategic disobedience committed by me, and for all the years the two of us would spend together Victoria never ceased to savor them. She saw my actions for what they were and was not at all offended by my assessment of what was needed to placate her as I was quite correct. It was with Victoria that I learned when to take, when to fold, and when to sacrifice in order to succeed. She taught me the ways of a proper gentleman; and all other duties of a man Bastian- Being one himself- could not.
The consequences of my callous and childlike attitude in this instance were swift and fitting. She would not spill my blood for fear of losing all rational thought to the animalistic lust such invoked in her kind. Punishment was still due. A backhand I never saw coming flung my body against the far wall. She remained where she was rather than following up on the blow, folding her arms over her ample chest as I fell to a crumpled heap upon the floor.
“I’ve asked nothing of you save common courtesy, I’ll have that much whether you give it freely or I must beat the concept into you. I will not shelter an ill mannered whelp. Fear not, I can be patient for the gentility I desire in you is the kind that most are bred for and born into, to acquire manners satisfactory to me will take time. Your transgressions are forgiven up to this point, but tred lightly… I am not so adverse to the taste of you, dear one."
Her caged pet would never love her though Victoria was eventually consumed by the agony of such an emotion unrequited, and yet when I thinks of this moment, my first beating, it is with fondness. The immortal instilled in me a sense of grudging respect for those that commanded physical strength. Though my mind is host to untold potential and power I will always have a weakness in the strength of a swift hand.
If ever one dared ask where it was I came into being, perhaps I would tell them I was born of midnight petals beneath the balcony of an old house... For it is with Victoria that this life truly began.
Should you actually dare read this profile please pardon the pretentious tone of douchebaggery. The name of the game on that forum was truly 'if an adjective can possibly be conceived between any two words it had better be there, or you aren't as super cool as everyone else'. I haven't gone back to alter the style used because of the fond memories attached. This piece symbolizes a piece of me, a stage of my writing, that I am still trying to grow out of/ overcome :3
What do your old posts mean to you? Are they precious, or rarely thought on?
x Ashe
Edited by Fae, Aug 12 2011, 03:26 AM.
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